Padded Walls
by the-darkest-nights
Summary: It's hard to discern between reality and fantasy when you have no idea what is real. -Implied Destiel-


Padded Walls

_**Summary:**_ _**It's hard to discern between reality and fantasy when you have no idea what is real.**_

_**A/N: **__**I don't know what this is. I just don't know! If I didn't know better, I would've said I didn't write it. Basically, I woke up after a night mare one night and then penned the whole thing in half an hour before I went to sleep again.**____**I don't even remember where most of this stuff came from so I made no changes to the original, just tidied it a bit and added Sam's part at the end.**_

_**Also I don't know much about mental illnesses so if I got anything wrong, just ignore my ignorance on the subject.**_

_**That's it.**_

_**Hope this actually makes some sense….**_

_**Beta**__**: padafuckyou on tumblr(Thanks man, you **_**saved**_** this story! )**_

_**Warnings**__**: Disturbing Imagery, I guess. **_

_**Also AU after7.16.**_

_**Disclaimer: **__**I don't own Supernatural.**_

Dean slumped back against the hard chair that his room provided; his blank hazel-green eyes taking in his surroundings.  
The room was barely a room. It was small and would've been cramped if it contained anything more than the chair-table pair and the cot and its lone occupant. The walls were padded and white, almost vulgar in their pristine glory. There were no windows, just one overhead light basking the room in soft white light and creating murky shadows under the furniture. The smooth linoleum floor was cold and unforgiving beneath his feet. The cot was visibly hard and lumpy, screwed to the floor, bare except for a single quilt.  
If Dean had any basis for comparison, and he had a life of nights spent in cheap motels, he would say that is was an okay place. It was pretty fucking homely actually. No mice-infestation or peeling paint.  
A movement in his peripheral vision broke Dean out of his thoughts. He tried to ignore it–he often saw things that went away moments later-but it kept moving there, always present in the corner of his eye. He looked around, hoping the white walls would give him some clarity of mind but they just stared in mocking silence. He stared back until the white slowly drained into something nauseatingly grey and then convulsed into some dark writhing creature in front of his eyes. The vision flickered in front of his eyes, soft light from the overhead lamp cutting through the room before the creature–the moving mass of grey and black-covered everything again. He felt his breath catch in his throat as oxygen became scarce and his insides tensed in apprehension, hands moving to grasp air where his knife should've been. It was a reflex action ingrained into his being by years of training and he did it without conscious thought, only feeling the absence when he didn't feel its comforting weight in his hand. He stood up, wanting to run away, but he felt himself move forward instead. He didn't have much control over his actions anymore. And his body moved against his wishes, moved towards the mass with a curiosity. A curiosity that he couldn't feel - a curiosity so foreign to him that it seemed it belonged to someone else. And as he moved forward a step, the mass seemed to move backward, teasing him by staying out of his range. As he took another step, the mass moved further away and he followed it much like the children had followed the Pied Piper's tune. And the more he moved the further it went, again and again until he lunged forward. But then it disappeared. Disappeared right in front of his eyes and he hit his face on the wall - _hard_.

He let out a pained 'uf' in his shock. It didn't hurt much because of the paddings but his head started spinning. He slid down against the wall, sitting down with his legs stretched in front of him.

He gazed up to the ceiling, to the light there and tried to remember _why_ he was on the floor. But he couldn't. Then for a moment he saw a black creature in front of him, baring its yellowing teeth to him, but it was gone as he blinked. And then he felt the sudden urge to laugh so he threw back his head and indulged himself. It started out a snigger, deep and low but then it turned into a full-fledged laugh as he felt mirth bubbling up his throat and he couldn't stop. After sometime, he paused. His throat hurt. And then he forgot why he was laughing. It was all so hazy now.  
He felt tired, he felt drained. He didn't want to drag himself to the bed on the other side of the room. It was not like the bed was any more comfortable than the floor, the floor was at least cool against his hot skin. And it smelled nice. It reminded him of the flowers in the garden, only the flowers smelt so much sweeter. He took a long drag of the sweet scent and curled up like a cat, putting his pounding head between his arms as he pulled his knees up to his chest. It felt nice. Almost comforting.  
From his position, he surveyed the room. He could see the rusted legs of the bed, one of the screws attaching it to the floor absent. He could see the layers of dust under the chair and the table. He could see the blue plastic of the plate containing his lunch (dinner? Breakfast?) peeking out over the side of the table. He didn't feel like eating. So he continued his observations until he focused his eyes on the shiny floor again.  
He felt he should be thankful that the floor was still even there at all. Unlike how it was in those 'dreams'. In the dreams, no, nightmares where he was tied up in chains, hung by them in the middle of a dark abyss with only the screams of the tormented for company. The sound hurt his ears, it hurt his everything, and more often than not he wanted to scream too. But he never could. Even when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. And the screams continued, jarring as ever.  
Sometimes he hears other things as well. Voices. Voices that told him things. They told him he was here for a cause, a reason greater than himself. A cause to die for. But, like many other things, he can't remember what it was anymore. The memory was lost already, but the memory of the memory stayed and provided its silent comfort- comfort of a sanity that he knew he was losing.

So he tried starting with the simple things, like the doctor had insisted.  
He started with his name.

His name was Dean Winchester. He was from Lawrence, Kansas. He had a brother, Sam Winchester, four years younger than him. His father was one John Winchester and mother was named Mary. Sometimes he had faces to go with these names but this was not one of those times.  
He had been told these things when he woke up chained to a bed in the Bailey Trust Mental Hospital. According to the nurses, his brother had dropped him off there.  
He knew these facts to be true–they just felt right on an intimate level.  
Then they told him he was sick. He had suffered from intense trauma – probably both physical and mental considering the various bodily injuries he had. He was a diagnosed schizophrenic with bipolar tendencies, prone to both intense paranoia and frighteningly real hallucinations. The doctors had told him once that these mental defects had been brought on by trauma. He was told what these illnesses meant but he didn't remember anymore. All he remembered was to eat the medicines he was sent, because they were supposed to fix him.  
Yet, something told him they wouldn't –couldn't- fix him. They didn't know the whole story; they were missing something. Something only Dean was supposed to know. So he didn't push but he stopped listening after that. His head hurt and a buzz filled his ears – resembling a thousand whispers in his ear, some familiar, others not. Some were recognizable; screams; tires squealing; guns going off; blood dripping on a stone floor. Others he didn't. And it all got louder and louder until it deafened him, dragging him down from consciousness. He could still see the lady's (who claimed to be Dr. Collin) lips moving but it was starting to fade and he couldn't focus anymore. His vision tilted and started swimming like he was looking through a kaleidoscopic glass before bright light exploded across his irises and everything flashed before him. Memories.  
In a single moment of clarity, he knew they were his memories. They started all fuzzy, tinged with yellow along the edges –like the pages of a book well-loved. A small boy lying in the arms of a woman with curling blonde hair and a kind smile. A man with dark hair with his arms around her. Then the fire which burned it all away, everything changed, the homely feeling was gone and it was so coldand hard but there was always a little boy, slowly growing up in flashes. And there were the creatures, the monsters. He tried to tell the doctor about them – she had told him he could tell her anything- but he stopped when her lips drew into a sharp line and there was pity in her eyes. He knew she didn't believe him, she told him that they were not real, they were hallucinations, they were the fantasies of the broken mind, so he shut up and kept them to himself. She wouldn't understand, no one would. There were new pills for him the next day-they knocked him out and made him all woozy. He hated them. He heard that deep voice saying, 'Don't trust anyone son, don't trust anyone except family' and he still couldn't put a face to it, but he knew he trusted the voice. Even though the voice was almost harsh, and sometimes he didn't even know what it meant when it said 'Take care of Sammy', he knew he trusted it. He wanted to tell the doctor about it, he knew she would listen, but he didn't want more pills. So he never told her anymore. The pictures –no, memories- continued, playing out one by one like the endless slide show of videos, some of them played by so fast that it was almost a blur, and some were so clear it felt like he could touch it if he tried. At one point, the little boy –he was not little anymore, but he was still young- disappeared, he saw his retreating back as he walked away from him. After that it was lonely. The creatures were still there, specially the one with the yellow eyes, but it was lonely without his companion. Sometimes the dark-haired man was there –he looked so old now, almost like a shell of the person he previously was- but mostly he was alone, even though there were other people. 'Specially one old man, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Then there was the boy again, then a fire and he felt a deep sense of guilt. It was probably his fault – the fire. The little boy seemed hurt by it, but he didn't know why. It was all so confusing. Everything was blurred together, but it always was the same. He found himself in the pit, hanging from chains. It was darker than the startles sky and warmer than the fire. And the creatures were there, tearing him apart like a rag doll. He saw the creatures taking pleasure in his pain, he saw himself taking pleasure in his pain, he saw himself becoming one of them. Sometimes he saw a bright light ending it all, sometimes he felt a touch on his shoulder, like a promise. Then the little boy was there again, all grown up now, but all he saw was a little boy and felt a streak of protectiveness run through him. There was another man too this time, a man with dark hair and blue eyes.

Then things got crazy. Everything was so weird he felt sure they were not memories anymore but he knew they were. Everything seemed dark, but sometimes the good flashed through. It was like a merry-go-round, for a few moments he was at the top, towering over everything else, reveling in the weightless feeling of joy before gravity pulled him down again, right into the middle of the madness. And it went on and on. He felt sick and wanted it to stop but it never did. It just went faster and faster and he got dragged behind it, feeling everything and falling and falling, until it was all gone and he was drowning in a void of blue. If he concentrated, the colour flashed and seemed like eyes and he wanted to hate it, to resent it –he felt like he had to- but he couldn't and he felt safe. Safe in the cocoon the blue provided, it was really the perfect shade, like the blue of the ocean in the picture in the doctor's office, or like the midnight sky he once saw from the little window in the hall. Except they weren't like it at all, it was like blue fire, scorching like some distant star, so holy and righteous that it made his heart ache.

And then it was gone.  
It was all gone.  
He felt hands on him, dragging him, putting him down on his bed–he knew it by the musty smell of the linen-but he felt nothing. It seemed like something had been dragged out of his chest.

And it hurt. It hurt so bad he wanted to cry.

So he did.  
He felt the slow drag of the tear rolling down his cheek. He didn't know when he had started crying, but he didn't care. He wanted it to be gone. The pain, the memories, the blue eyes that probably didn't exist.

But they didn't. So he cried. He let the tears fall slowly, gravity pulling them from his eyes until they dried out leaving a salty taste on his lips.

~xOx~

Sam peered through the small window on the door to Room 317.

The window was hazy, the glass dirty. But he could make out the shape of his brother curled up on the cot. He was shaking slightly, body curling like a child's.

"How is he?" He asked softly, tracing his brother's body with his eyes.

The nurse who had escorted him to Dean looked up from her clipboard, "Technically, he is stable. We have him on medications. As long as the effects of the drug last, he is okay. Then the hallucinations start again. We keep him sedated at most times."

"So you keep him drugged 24/7 to control his crazy?" he snapped, turning towards her.

"It is for his personal safety, Mr. Winchester. You brother has violent tendencies," she answered in a cool voice.

Sam sighed.

She was probably right. He had seen Dean during his hallucinations once. They had to tie him down to stop him from attacking everyone.

"Is there anything else that I need to know?" he asked. "Does he ever ask for me?" he continued brokenly.

Sam saw pity in the nurse's eyes. "Yes, he often screams your name during his –" she stopped, searching for the right words.

"Hallucinations," Sam filled in quietly.

"Yes, um, hallucinations. Also does he have a wife, or a girlfriend? He sometimes asks for a 'Cass' during his breakdowns. We tried asking him what it was, but he said he didn't know any Cass. Maybe it would help if this 'Cass' person would visit."

"Um, Cas is dead."

"Oh, I am so sorry. However, that explains a lot." She stated.

"Explains what?"

Your brother is under the impression that this person is alive. He often demands Cass 'to get his feathery ass down here'," she answered. using one hand to make quote marks.

"Of course."

Sam turned around to face the door again.

Dean was no longer on the bed. He was standing in the middle of the room, face turned upwards like in prayer. His lips were moving but Sam couldn't hear anything from outside the door.

"Can I meet him today?"

"I am afraid not, sir. The doctor has placed him under observations, so no visitors."

Sam nodded in understanding, before looking back at Dean once more. He was still standing in the middle of the room, not having moved an inch.

"I will save you Dean. I will find someone to heal you," he promised softly, touching the glass of the window.

The nurse looked away to give him an illusion of privacy.

"I swear, Dean, I'll save you."

~xOx~

_**Thanks for reading!**_

_**Leave a review? It was really hard to write and I would really appreciate it if you guys gave your opinions on whether the scenes worked or not – especially when Dean is having his breakdown and all.**_

_**That's all.**_

_**~~Meg~~**_


End file.
